the afterlife has to start somewhere
by Lupin
Summary: Yukiatsu learns to let go.


**the afterlife has to start somewhere**

Tsurumi is meant to be the sensible one. The reliable, level-headed one, unwavering and unmoved; the one Yukiatsu can count on to skewer his self-serving lies with all the cold precision of a knife through the heart. The one he can count on for too many other things.

Which is why the sight of her now, crying, confessing to something as misguided as love for himself— that sight makes something twist within Yukiatsu, a jolt that cuts through the roiling mess of confused emotions. Even as Poppo's words shock them all into deeper grief, even as Yukiatsu feels the now-familiar prickle of tears in his eyes, something else is set into motion.

Yukiatsu has always been selfish. But tonight feels more important than old wounds or a long-nursed grudge, and so he pushes away the anger, says "Jintan" like he means it, tries to force them all along the path to a closure that's coming years too late.

This is for Menma's sake, he thinks. For Tsurumi's– Tsuruko's sake as well.

It still takes every last scrap of his limited self-control to swing an arm across Yadomi's thin shoulders and force a smile. He's never been good at lying; the word "leader" lends the slightest half-curl to his lip as he says it, a surrender in a one-sided war.

No matter. It's enough. Something that stalled during that distant summer begins, slowly, to creak back to life. They speak in unison for the first time in years, use names that were once buried, and soon Yadomi is off and running, leaving them behind at the shrine: once more the hero.

The long-burning anger rises in Yukiatsu's chest, insistent, like a sob that refuses to be choked down. He chokes it down anyway.

* * *

><p>The next day, after everything, he throws the wig away.<p>

He's not that far gone, after all. He knows himself well enough. Matsuyuki Atsumu: 181 cm, 68 kg, intelligent, good-looking, well on the way to becoming part of society's elite. And also: bitter, pathetic, still traumatised by the death of a childhood friend. Under the anger and pain, there's always been a part of him that could rationalise it all, that watched himself and laughed: the part which mocked his inability to escape the past, his sad attempt at resurrecting a dead girl. But self-awareness is not the same as the ability to change, and so he kept up that pitiable display for a private audience: a closet of secrets, conversations that were only with himself, a white one-piece that could never be the right size.

But now it's over. Menma _is_ gone, and his Menma with her. And jealousy exists only if you believe yourself worthy of what you covet. So the wig goes, stuffed unceremoniously into a paper bag and left on some anonymous rubbish heap. A few days later, the dress follows. And then the old hatred, too, begins to fade. Envy is lost to a kind of acquiescence. Anger burns down to nothing. In their place, an emptiness he's not ready to begin to fill.

* * *

><p>This is what remains: a folded letter which he will eventually learn to stop rereading. A memory of a girl's smile against a sunrise. The syllables of childhood nicknames, edging their way back into familiarity. Resentment that has dulled into resignation. A hairclip, never worn.<p>

He gives the last to Tsuruko. To the careless observer, it could be read as entirely the wrong gesture: a sorry attempt at substitution, a wish to dress the present in remnants of the past. But he trusts Tsuruko to know him well enough to think otherwise. And Tsuruko deserves better than a lie which she would have recognised anyway, so he doesn't say _I like you_ or _Let's go out with each other _or _I wanted you to have this_. They both know that sentiments can't change so easily. Instead he simply calls her name – the right one – and holds the hairclip out as she turns towards him.

There's surprise, yes, and maybe something close to hope or hesitation in her gaze as it flickers from the hairclip to him and back down again. But despite everything, Tsuruko is still Tsuruko, and so she doesn't stammer or blush or ask a thing; she knows that he trusts her to know exactly what he does and doesn't mean.

The gesture is a shared one, not a matter of gift and recipient: Tsuruko reaches out, not waiting for Yukiatsu to place it in her hand. Her fingertips close lightly on the flower. Their fingers do not brush against each other's, but she looks up and Yukiatsu meets her gaze, holds it for longer than he has done in weeks. He still can't quite read her expression, but it's okay. It's something he can learn to do.

The hairclip's surface is cool and smooth against his skin. He lets go.

In that instant, the world doesn't change. The day continues fading into sunset, the train rattles its insistent song against the tracks, and Tsuruko still looks at him in a way he can't yet return. But there's a sudden, foreign lightness in his chest: as if something has died, or is finally free.


End file.
